


Evergreen

by Estivate



Category: Journey into Mystery, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Identities, Emotional Manipulation, Identity Issues, Insomnia, Lolita-esque, M/M, Nightmares, Protective Thor, Road Trips, Slow memory gain, non-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estivate/pseuds/Estivate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a space in his life the man used to dwell; it has his contours, his profile, even the echo of his voice. The air is heavy with distant and indistinct memories, but for now, only the smell of rain hangs between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wait for You

The afternoon roads were pitifully empty, a downpour having chased all prospects of a day’s work away, leaving him to wander around the Parisian city, soaked, and still it was better than the sewer stench, or the company of orphans and rats.

He treads through an artist’s cityscape – the mist and rain obscuring lights to near romanticism, like the ones readily sold at the many tourist shops. Yet no matter how often he walks these streets he still finds himself a stranger in a strange land, like the first time he had opened his eyes and looked around him. In those first few winter weeks he spent some time wandering before he realized that he didn’t have a home, and so it no longer mattered where he went.

For now, following the dissipating scent of bread, his feet carry him to the invitation of a bakery display.

He watches the warmth emanating from inside and presses his hands upon the pane as if to chase away his hunger on smell and sight alone instead of merely exasperating it further.

He watches the droplets bead, run down, and diverge in jagged streams upon the glass, finger tracing their paths.

He watches a stranger’s reflection approach in the window out of the corner of his eye before the cover of an umbrella is shared alongside, surprising him as if struck by the first drop of rain from a blue sky. The figure towers over him; he barely reaches his waist, and when he raises his eyes he brushes back the fringe of wet hair, blinking some more.

The man’s grip on his umbrella handle falters for a second, hardly noticeable. He knows what an image he must make – that of a tragic portrait meant to draw sympathy, to tug on their heartstrings.

“What is your name?”

He stays quiet for a moment before answering “Serrure.” barely above a whisper. “Why are you asking me my name?” in smooth French. The man’s lips did not match his words.

“Just Serrure?”

His expression darkens with doubt. There is a space in his life the man used to dwell; it has his contours, his profile, even the echo of his voice. The air is heavy with distant and indistinct memories, but for now, only the smell of rain hangs between them.

“You’ve changed.” he says, with slight confusion, looking up.

The man offers no explanation – concerned with seeking answers of his own, asking them from him of all people, as if he knew anything more than he did. “How old are you?”

Silence. He should make up an age. It didn’t really matter so he might as well be any believable range, but the stranger interrupts him first.

“Do – do you have parents? Guardians?” His eyes search his, as if trying to find an identity within them. His expression begs honesty, and so he shakes his head.

The man comes to a crouch – at eye level with him. It’s an awkward position – his bulk barely fitting under the umbrella’s protection. “Come with me then? If you will?” And Serrure is young, but he wasn’t born yesterday. He has no idea what this man may want from him, what anyone would want from the likes of him. He should leave, because strangers with kind eyes were not supposed to find their way into his life…but the alternative was to back away into the cold, and the nothingness of a life on the streets.

And he still didn’t have any answers.

With little to lose, he takes his hand and they walked together to the thrum of water bouncing on cobblestone. He knew his name now – Donald Blake: American; it wasn’t familiar. Three of his strides made for one, so the walk took longer. The rain remained patient with them, not nearing any signs of lessening. 

It’s only a walk. But it feels like a journey.

Eventually they came to the front of a small medical clinic situated inconspicuously between a larger house and an apartment. Without the sign there was nothing to indicate towards the fact that it was a clinic – looking to him more to have been an old shop of sorts before. Serrure wrings his shirt at the hem first before stepping in.

He lived upstairs, and downstairs was where he carried out his vocation. There were four rooms consisting of a narrow kitchen, a tiny bathroom, an everything-else room with a sofa and dining table - some boxes, and a bedroom. Serrure thinks that a man of his stature is out of place for such quarters, but everything remained clean, if only compact.

Donald rifts through the closet to find something dry for him to change into, after telling him he may go where he pleases. There isn’t much to see, except for the odd placement of a hammer on a coatrack. He tries to glean as much as he can without snooping, but there are no pictures on the walls, or photographs in frames – nothing to suggest any connection. He stands on the tip of his toes to peer over the rim of a cardboard box pile. Nothing.

Rolling the loose thread on the end of a faded black sweater between his thumb and forefinger, he wonders who they are before pulling it on – searching inside longer than necessary for the collar – and padding towards the kitchen.

\---

His oversized clothing on the boy’s frame only further emphasized how small Serrure was: its bottom going slightly past his knees. It didn’t seem to matter to him though, only that the fabric was a comfortable texture and that he no longer looked like a wet cat. He leaned against the entranceway, head tilted.

The sweater means he longer has to count the ribs through a wet, plastered shirt. _When was the last you ate your fill?_ But he doesn’t want to know the answer to that, not really.

The boy ate in silence too, all the while watching him. He could almost imagine the cautionary question marks above his head, but free food was not something to ignore when so proffered. He watched all the while with a hand propped on his chin – almost amused and sad. Serrure licks away the milk above his lips. “I’ll stay until…the rain stops.” and then slips away to the couch to watch out the window – because surely it would, any time now.

But the view was as monotonous as the consistent rhythm, and he was so tired, had been tired for such a long time. He closes his eyes, only for a moment.

\---

Unsurprisingly, Serrure’s movements around him had a wary tenseness, but his eyes give away his desperation, had given it away since the first time he looked at him. Recalling every poet’s shade of green, he was never as sure as he was then. All this time…

When the dishes are put away and the table cleaned (which is to say, not long at all) he finds Serrure curled up on himself, sleeping – a black lump with dark hair, long legs folded in, but feet poking out. Finding an extra cover to drape over him, he lets him rest a while longer.

\---

The thin sunlight gives way to evening, and evening gives way to night. By then the storm had gotten even heavier, the water now beating against the windows like a spray from a hose, made more ferocious by additional rumblings of thunder. There was enough rain it seemed to flood the Seine twice over. He jolts awake and nearly falls off the couch, rubbing his eyes in dismay, breathing harshly.

Glancing around, in the wake of a dark confusion, he barely remembers where he is and how he got there in time. When he does he sits back softly as the cloth falls off his shoulder with an ‘Oh.’

Serrure stands up, keeping the cover wrapped around him. It’s a shade of brilliant red in the flash of lightening that follows and grants him some vision. He runs a hand along it slowly, the fabric richer than anything he has ever felt. His gaze lingers on it while his sight adjusts, and when he walks it drags behind him in a makeshift cape. One hand is clenched in it, and another explores along the wall, mapping his way around.

He treads soundlessly towards the bedroom, pushing the door open a sliver before realizing belatedly that he should’ve knocked, but the man is sitting upright against the headboard, turning to face him in the doorway at the sound. No lights are on.

“I- I can’t go back.”

“Of course not.”

At the sound of thunder, Serrure shuffles his way towards the bed shyly and adjusts himself to sit cross-legged where there’s room, observing out the window.

“Frightened?”

“Yes.” he answers faintly.

“I can make it stop if you wish.”

Shaking his head, “I want to look.”

He smiles endearingly at him – however going unnoticed by Serrure, who continues looking outside as if holding his breath too, before voicing a question unwittingly.

“Have I…been missing?”

“Yes.”

“Missed?”

“Most dearly.”

“Have I done something bad?”

Several beats of silence follow, and Serrure’s heart sinks. It would explain why after all – that he had been abandoned, that he had been punished.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You no longer need to think like that.”

But these are simple answers to complex questions – meant for placating a child. There is something he’s not saying, but it’s with them, between them. In this room: a history left unexplained but palpable enough as the lump in his throat. Serrure tries to discern his expression, but his shadowed face prevents it. Instead it deepens the lines in his face, and as he looks, the face seems older, much older.

Swallowing, and squeezing his eyes shut then, “So you’re not…angry with me? Have I hurt someone?”

“No.”

Serrure doesn’t know which question it refers to. Both, none, a lie? There’s a mutated flash of lightning from beneath his eyelids corresponding to thunder too far away to be heard.

The stillness that follows is as delicate as their unspoken truce until Serrure lays his head down on the pillow and hugs his knees; a hand close on the hem of Donald’s shirt. “What happens now?”

His uncertainty stalls him for a moment. “I don’t know, but we’ll start slow.” and tugs the red cloth so that it covered his entirety.

His eyes fall half-lidded, and he hums his affirmation before soft bedding and warm affection immerses him in sleep once more.

\---

It’s a dream – the same dream, always the same dream. He’s chasing after someone, a boy, with hair as gold and soft as the reeds and tall grasses they’re running through – taller than they are. He has to keep up or he’ll lose sight of him, but he’s laughing too hard, and it feels like he’s chasing after breath as well. Hands outstretched, he tries to grab a hold of him. _Wait. Wait for me--_

There’s a name he hasn’t said yet until now.

Thor. The boy’s name is Thor.


	2. Anywhere but Here

The park was steadily emptying out of children swinging around the monkey bars, rocking the see-saws, and delighting on the slides – mothers in tow. Bright were the sounds of their laughter until the dissolving daylight tones down to a softer melody. There were those hesitant to leave behind their sand creations, lingering on the scene, but eventually took the memory of the playground home with them.

Remaining on the periphery of the area sat Serrure, prim and proper on the park bench as he always had, his feet dangling a few centimeters off the ground. The shadows are already stretched a disproportionate length from their stationary casters in the glow of a red sunset, matching the colour of Thor’s cape perfectly.

He wonders what he’s doing right now, if he’s alone, and if not, whose wounds he’s mending.

It’s been three weeks, but the newness of it all still catches him unaware whenever he’s reminded to consider it. Three weeks since Donal– no, Thor – had promised him a better life, better home, better everything.

He watches for all the new things he should learn – how to be a proper child for once. The clothes are new too, but the name is not. Serrure is the last thing he’s holding onto, until he’s convinced that he won’t need it again.

Lo-ki. Loki. He mulls over it, repeating it enough times in his head that it really should sink in.

Instead, he decides to try his luck with a vacated swing.

Extend legs.

Draw back.

Repeat.

Swing.

The old iron chains holding him creak in indignation, but he keeps going for further momentum.

Suddenly he has too much time on his hands. In the beginning he had tried to make himself useful, but Thor was quick to put any attempts at work to a quick stop. They came in during the day with broken bones, skinned knees, or bleeding noses, and he would patch them up, send them out, bandaged, cleaned, and with a warm smile. All of course, for free. Loki quickly realized that he had no desire to watch.

Whenever Thor looks at him it’s only ever with boundless patience and misplaced familiarity. It comforts and disarms him at the same time. Feels asymmetric – along with every other aspect between the two of them.

_Brothers._ He had said. What they were supposed to be.

He jumps off the swing with an inward huff, sneakers making skidded lines in the sand. Loki takes a final look behind him before heading home, the last vestiges of daylight guiding him until he reaches their residential area. Turning at the corner, he runs the last distance, and reaches the door with perfect timing before the first streetlamp flickers on.

Closing the door behind him, Loki nearly bumps into Thor with one sleeve in a jacket and both shoes on. He yelps in surprise and flushes embarrassed.

“Is everything alright? I was just about to go search for you.” noticing his quick breathing and nervous expression.

_I’m fine._

“I was only at the park.”

Thor beams at him, as if the association of the park validates that Loki has gone out to have fun for once. Loki bites his lips. It shouldn’t be this hard. Lying.

“I- I may have hurt my knee though, I’m not so sure.”

His worried frown is immediate.

“I fell when I jumped off a swing.” he says quietly, no longer making eye contact.

“Let me see.” tone serious.

He nods in a rush and takes off his shoes.

When they’re out of the doorway, Thor picks him up with barely any effort at all and sets him down on the counter top next to a sink and sterile medical instruments.

His feet are bare and small grains of sand crumble from his toes when he wiggles them. He’s always forgetting socks. The jeans won’t roll up all the way, so Loki has to take them off, shimmying out of them, making Thor laugh lightly.

He takes Loki’s ankle in hand and the other moves up his long leg – pale and slender still no matter how often he’s outside or how much he’s fed him since. Thor’s large hands feel rough and calloused against his skin and he lets out a small shiver, thinking that he could snap the bone as easily as a bird’s if he wanted. Thor mistakes this for pain and asks him where it hurts, because he can’t see a scuff or a scrape, there’s nothing.

He tells him the bruise probably hasn’t formed yet, but his knee throbs. Though bruises will come and go in time without anything to be done besides, and the best Thor can do is press a gentle kiss. His lips are softer than Loki would have thought, and the action draws from him a tiny gasp.

Thor straightens with an apologetic look in his eyes. “I’ll look at it again tomorrow.” Loki wraps his arms around him when he takes them upstairs for dinner, and when they sleep that night it’s still together in his bed.

\---

He blinks blearily up at the light shining in. Thor lets him sleep however long he wants, can never bring himself to disturb the peaceful image, but his side is empty and Loki can hear the dim sounds of activity downstairs.

Yawning, he sits up, rubbing his eyes. Every morning it always feels the same.

_As if I’d slept for a lifetime._

_Uncovered the secrets of the universe._

_Broken a promise._

_Saved the world._

_Only to wake up in my own bed again._

His dreams are still a haze of gold and glimmer, of summer and happiness, and the crisp sweetness on his tongue like nothing else on earth. He stays in bed a little longer before the feeling fades.

\---

On the weekend business is slow; few if any jingle through the door and exit. This lets him loiter out in front undisturbed between the clinic and the small iron gate. Thor makes food in the upstairs kitchen sans apron as noon approaches. He’s stays on the part that’s well shaded by the building and observes an ant dragging away its larger, dead compatriot. Every so often he nudges the body with a twig whenever it falls into a slight depression that proves too much for its small undertaker. He brushes a dark lock out of his eyes.

“So, this is where you’ve been.”

Serrure’s head shoots up and he rises from his crouch.

 “At first I worried that the cops nabbed you. I didn’t believe him at first when Gilles told me he saw you.”

Jordan was standing on the rung of the dark metal, chin on his hand. He looked at him unimpressed. “It’s been difficult you know – no one else performs sleight of hand nearly as well as you do.” he accuses.

He narrows his eyes and keeps his distance. Their partnership had been a purely mutually beneficial one when both skills had been handy. He’s made it off the streets, and there’s little guilt to be found in that, even when he did prove unreliable. “Too bad. I’m not going back to that.”

Jordan jumps off and grips the railings hard enough that his knuckles turn white. “And this,” giving a harsh nod in the clinic’s direction “is your gig now?”

He shrugs.

Jordan’s eyes look him up and down. “The older boys were all doing it. I didn’t know you were too.”

The hairs on the back of his neck rise as he defends “It’s not like that!” He can sense the disbelief in Jordan’s eyes: the jealousy – and now disdain.

He jams his hands into his pockets and fishes out the bills and coins Thor gave him for whatever it is he assumed he wanted and throws them at his feet. “There. That’s all I have for now.” _So go._

As the other boy scrambles down to pick up the cash, Serrure swallows down the apology in his throat. It would do both of them little good. In the end he’s not, not really.

Loki watches until he leaves the street before leaning against the gate and slumping down. His sleeves are damp before he notices it and he’s holding himself from shaking.

\---

He locks the door behind him as he enters and takes everything in as if it were the first time again. He turns upstairs. He needs to see him, needs to confirm the reality of him once more. With every step he takes upwards, he heavier he feels, legs becoming leaden and heart sinking. He’s scared that even blinking will give an opportunity for the setting to disappear from beneath his feet.

The sound of another pair of footfalls against the wooden floor boards reveal him in the living room, setting up the table. He turns and grins, “I was just about to call.”

Loki’s hugging his midsection all of the sudden, face buried in his shirt. Thor’s spare hand cards his fingers through his hair, he chuckles “Has it been so long?” His low voice vibrates through his body and he feels it against his chest. Everything about him – his warmth, his solid presence – is back in startling clarity. He realizes he’s been holding on too tightly and relaxes.

Thor’s hand is on his shoulder as a gentle weight, pulling him back slightly to look at him proper. His eyebrow arches up questioningly.

His gaze drifts upwards to meet Thor’s, his lips part, and the words spill out more bluntly than he intends, “Take me away. Somewhere far.”

And very quietly, as if added as an afterthought, “Please.”

And Thor’s helpless against those words. This is the first real request his brother’s made. How could he refuse?

So Thor embraces him back. “Anything.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: road trip.


	3. As We Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies ^^U. I sat on this longer than expected. Originally the length was going to be much longer, but I decided to split the chapters, because I wanted something to show for after such a long wait.

Little has changed about the dusty roadside town of Puente Antiguo – the area is wistful as it is desolate, population outnumbered by cacti and tumbleweed. The car door behind slams shut at the sound of his brother’s unprecedented excitement at exploring it. It had recently been bought from an unmannerly, gruff man who had looked too glad to finally be rid of it. Loki was rifling through the glove compartment, lying on his stomach on the cracked and worn leather seat, drawn back to its full extent – feet hanging off the headrest. He had taken a liking to it immediately, and proceeded to name the tired old wagon Melvin. Upon testing the horn, what pathetic sound came out was the automobile equivalent of a wheeze. “This will be grand!” he laughs, as if there could be nothing more perfect.

Thor gives in to the infectious joy despite their less than impressive vehicle. Loki salvages a map, and spreads it out on the hood, coming to stand beside him while squinting at the miniscule font and criss-crosses. He knows as much as them being in America, the landscape around them, and nothing else. “Must we make haste for New York right away?”

“Eventually at least, brother.” pointing to its corresponding location.

“We’re still a long way’s off, and I want to see the ocean.”

“Calm, Loki, we’ll take all the time we want.”

“Truly? You mean it?” looking more and more pleased than Thor has seen him yet.

He places a hand on his head and ruffles his hair. “Anything you’d like.”

Secretly, he’s increasingly relieved at deciding against returning to Asgard. Bitterness and contempt were still too fresh, and Thor was not naïve to the thought of those that would sniff their disdain at Loki in his presence at best, and at worst… No. Asgard was no place for him.

Rust red dust clouded up at their feet as the dry desert wind blew in. Thor’s massive height offered him a comfortable breeze, but Loki coughed into his hand and wiped his brow before peering up at him. “Well right now I’d like a drink.”

\---

Loki’s first to grab a stool at the counter of a dingy diner and orders. The bartender is a woman long past her prime running one too many shifts and doesn’t look to enjoy usual company, but even she smiles at Loki when he offers her a cheeky grin. Thor watches his playful charm at work.

When she serves him the ridiculously pink concoction, Loki politely requests a second straw. He takes a sip before passing it off to Thor with a nod, licking the foam from his lips.

Thor had walked in with a nostalgic smile, and an air of recognition and old familiarity, compared to Loki who has just arrived and noticing various details for the first time: an outdated jukebox that’s no longer plugged in, checkered tiled flooring, neon fonts and leather seats. He likes it – despite the faded paint job and the layer of dust at the corners; and when he swivels back on his seat he asks if Thor likes it (Yes – the milkshake that is.) instead of asking what this place is to him.

The silence shared between them is companionable – easy, broken only by the suctioning sound of Loki finishing off the last bit, and then they are on their merry way again, the only evidence of ever having been there being the corresponding shade of strawberry left on his mouth.

\---

Their last stop has Loki looking at the merchandise in a convenience store for any supplies they might need, as well as a washroom break beforehand. He looks at his reflection in the mirror at his choice of sunglasses and beams cheerily, before picking another one. Thor has more practical selections on hand: motor oil, toiletries, car kits. Loki ambles to the cash counter and spills out an armful of junk food beside those. Noticing the gum packets displayed, he takes a generous number of those too. Thor laughs and shakes his head; Loki suddenly feels shy and he fights down a blush.

A balding store owner with sweat stains under his arms eyes the odd pair, but doesn’t care so much as long as they pay up. Loki goes off first to wait at the car. Thor briefly stops him to pluck off the plastic red-rimmed heart shaped glasses from his nose and places it atop the pile – tag still attached. His brother mouths an innocent “whoops” before slipping out the door.

With an armful of bags in hand, Thor comes out to find his brother staring down two unintimidated ravens – one on the headlight and another on the side mirror. The closer of the two beats its wings and caws at Loki, the other looks to Thor’s direction with beady, accusatory eyes. He approaches them, frowning.

“Bold birds, aren’t they?” Loki remarks. He shoos at them and they take off in an indignant flurry of feathers.

“Indeed.” Thor affirms, gaze narrowed to where the ravens fly away. Loki has only the barest of impressions that he’s missed something. An odd sight, but nothing more surely…?

“Let me help. Most are mine anyway.” and just as quickly the cautious air has been dispelled.

At last there was no more stalling. They got in and Loki patted the dashboard, “Be good now.” The smell of vehicle grease, feel of soft leather, and the heat inside permeated his senses. Loki didn’t miss how Thor seemed to embody a mechanic with his hair tied in a low bun, and a body of hard muscle – he dominated the inside, filling the space with his presence; Loki subsequently rolled down a window for all the factors above. He tilted his head towards Thor while Thor quirks an eyebrow and holds up the key. Loki sucks in a breath and nods his head.

The old Ford sputtered to life and Loki whooped. They made their way onto the highway, and soon Puente Antiguo was an unidentifiable speck behind them that he eyed fondly in the side view mirror.

They drove seemingly towards the horizon edge, an endless stretch of empty road to meet the skyline at a point. Out here where the skies were clearer than anything he’d seen, colours more intense, and the asphalt a sleek black left an image of a scene untouched and road barely travelled. An azure brilliance on a cloudless day to an afternoon sun contrasted with the warm reds and tanned hues of the earth. The enormity of the landscape surrounding them made their movement seem standstill in comparison, despite the wind rushing by.

Everything flowed together and yet seemed frozen. He has no idea how much further it is left to go, but when he looks to Thor and the gentle smile on his face, the strands of hair that have been teased out from his messy bun, he realizes that it doesn’t matter.

\---

His brother had dozed off after the setting ochre sun descended an hour ago. He neared an exit pointing to the nearest roadside motel that despite his best efforts would have to do, because the night temperatures did not bode well for a child that needed rest.

He turns off the ignition, shifts the car into park, and stops to give the rusted wagon a well-deserved break too. Loki doesn’t stir – his head is drooping downwards towards the side. Instead of shaking him awake he gets out and crosses over to the passenger side to ply him from the seat and carry him. His body is light and limp, and he mumbles something incoherent as loose arms come up to wrap around Thor’s shoulders, face nuzzled in his brother’s muscled chest; he sighs and relaxes against the new source of heat.

Out in the middle of nowhere at night is a sky full of indifferent stars and their innumerable silence. Thor cranes his neck up and finds the constellations that orients towards home while shifting his hold on all he has. He stands there for a moment until the beckoning flashing sign in the periphery becomes too glaring to ignore, heading inwards.

The woman at the lobby’s front desk is kind in offering but apologetic looking when she tells him that there are only singles remaining. He reassures her with an _‘It will do.’_ and pockets the room key.

Perhaps it’s the additional effort of trying not to disturb the boy in his arms, but the stairs seem endless, the hall stretches on, and their bedroom door feels so very far away, while each shallow breath tickles the revealed skin of his collar. Then inevitably, he’s at their designated door, and he takes them through the last threshold.

He lays him down on the freshly made queen-sized bed, creasing the crisp sheets, and unlatches the hands laced on the back of his neck. The separation more than anything alerts Loki momentarily to the absence of touch, having him peer out under hooded eyelids as if to inquire whether or not Thor’s coming. Noticing he’s occupying the only adequate sleeping surface in their room, he yawns and turns in, moving the pillow to the side slightly, so that the portion shared is a little more even.

Having divested his shirt, Thor’s careful in shifting the mattress and adjusting the covers as he slides in beside. Loki’s deep and even breathing however, tells him that he’s already asleep, laid out with his feet exposed and one arm thrown out on Thor’s side of the bed. 

He takes this moment of respite to regard the youth. He wants to remember these instances before Loki is grown, wants to return to some semblance of when they were the only constant in each other’s lives again.

Still as curious as a kitten. Still almond and ebon. Still his.

A dark lock of black is brushed behind an ear and lips press to his brother’s temple before he turns off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is picking up, and I'm not sure how available I'll be to write, but hopefully it won't be so long?
> 
> Coming up: Ikol


	4. Remember This

They rolled eastwards, travelling as a dotted line traced on the American map. Wherever they went, candy wrappers and popsicle sticks made for a saccharine journey as Loki kept himself cool inside the heated metal car without air conditioning. He would propose the riddle to Thor on each stick as he finished them.

“Who do all the inches follow?” (Their ruler.) “What is a knight’s favourite fish?” (Sword fish!) “What bugs do firemen dislike?” (Fireflies.) “What kind of bird writes letters?” (Penguins.)

Thor had not correctly guessed a single one, but had chuckled along to his little brother’s amusement, who would then throw the remains in the backseat, or flick it out the window. The litterer.

Furthermore, Loki insisted on fulfilling every single juvenile cliché of his fancy, and more often than not he would have to take an abrupt exit ramp in the instant something caught Loki’s eye, and he absolutely pleaded that they had to go because it was surely the only one they’d see and there would be nothing else like it ever again.

He believed any advertisement that appeared, the perfect naïve youth to whom posters and billboards were made for. Unfailingly, the words “souvenirs, gift shops, deals, and specials” caused him to perk, and another plea on his lips for Thor to grant. Naturally, he did, and was spoiling him under a pile of mementos, tokens, trinkets, and baubles. Like the happy remains of a good childhood.

And in the light of that, the price seemed very small indeed.

Saturday. Loki hums to himself in the car, _‘La mer, la mer_ ’ in singsong. The windows are rolled down, his hand outstretched as if to catch something in the breeze.

Thor promised him the world, and thus the sea with it.

As soon as they reached sand, Loki’s out the car before it’s even parked and races towards the waves, silver laughter trailing. The sky is a feather grey – changeable, but calm, and they miraculously had the stretch of beach to themselves, where the waters beckoned to its only visitors.

A timeless rhythm lapped against the grains, its ebb and flow charted by the moon’s path – the motion is soothing, the roiling blue-green and white shimmer as sea foam at his toes. He has never seen such a large body of water before, thinks distantly that there are secrets…and if he finds a shell he’ll be able to listen. He starts looking and tells Thor to do the same.

He wanders to a rocky part of the coast and with ever so careful footing – making extra sure to avoid the algae slicked edges – climbed onto one where a section managed to stay dry. Observes, as if determining the foundations of where to build a castle for a kingdom by the sea, precarious as it may be.

The bulging waves throw their weight against the rocks, each time rising up to dash and claw, but it was only the sea spray that reached him. He stands before the boundless swings until his legs are gritty with brine. Closing his eyes, feeling so very small – it would be terribly easy to be swept away like this until he’s only a speckle in the expanse. He lets his mind drift with the thought of being rescued from frigid waters by a burly, blond lifeguard, being resuscitated back to life. And then, and then…

He climbs back down, making sure to bid the starfish goodbye from its underside perch.

Thor returns eventually, bashfully showing Loki his meager handful of shells. (Earlier he had found one that was perfect, coming up to an elegant spiral, and large, but when he reached out it grew legs and irritably scuttled away.) Loki pouts, “Were there no conches available?” but forgives him.

Together they spend some time choosing amongst the selection. It’s a careful process – Loki wants a keepsake. In the end he picks a small, clam-shaped one. One side hard, rumpled ridges while the other side iridescent and rosy pink. He thumbs the smooth lip of the inner shell, and wonders about the other half before pocketing it.

As they stroll, Thor talks of a sport one can partake on the waves known as ‘surfing,’ and that the mere simplistic mechanism of a board allows one to ride the currents. Loki questions whether or not Thor has the balance, and if so, that he should attempt it. While talking, Loki absent-mindedly rubs his arms. Thor pauses his steps and notices that his brother is all gooseflesh.

An arm sweeps under his knees, lifting him. The tides had been coming in, gradually without their notice, but enough to dampen the edges of Loki’s shorts. Distracted children were sometimes snatched by the ocean, but Thor was an anchor, immoveable and sturdy, and Loki was comfortable in his embrace, held there with his head leaning on his chest and a hand splayed.

“Are you warmed?”

He nods.

Then hesitantly, unsure: “Thor?”

“Mmm?”

“Close your eyes.” He’s seen enough of it from the Parisians, the tourists, the movies, the magazines.

Small, damp hands reached up to caress his face.

Hidden from the world in the maze cleft of rocks with only a lost pair of sunglasses as witness, Loki delicately presses his lips against Thor’s chapped ones. His eyes are closed, and so he can’t see his brother’s wide surprise, the protest on his tongue dying out before it could be voiced.

Loki pulls back, a dreamy expression on those features. “I’ve never been kissed before.” It’s an invitation as any to return the gesture. After all, Thor’s already indulged him in everything else he could want so it’s little wonder that Loki thinks he’ll give him this, already it’s too late even. Sure enough he’s kissing back on that open mouth before rational thought could win out. He can taste the latest sugar confection on his tongue – a sweetness of flutter and probe, of butterfly touches.

He tilts into it, deepening it enough to make Thor forget about a realm waiting on his return, of monsters to vanquish, or cities to rebuild – to only float in an enclosure of water and sand, the wind and sky, the ecstasy of life in itself like he’s experiencing everything for the first time again.

And love. Between the two of them, holding a world of intimacy.

Loki continues to bestow his face with kisses, maps the bridge of Thor’s nose, the brush of stubble, the line of his strong jaw. The water level rises higher and higher and the daylight grows dimmer and dimmer, and what does it matter anymore so long as Loki can have this, could stay like this at the edge of the earth and at the end of the day.

Perfection.

The last kiss is one on Thor’s brow, pressed there so as to leave the impression of heated lips a little longer, but eventually, Thor pulls away sheepishly at Loki’s dimpled smile so that they may return home.

\---

Sunday.

The day ceases to stir, and together they lay suspended as if dust particles in air, or melting clocks in time. He swallows thickly. One couldn’t even look outside without the sight wavering let alone last five minutes in a car.

Loki was lying down on his stomach, preoccupied with his red-green-blue comics in one of Thor’s overly large white shirts that only went so far as mid-thigh, the rest of that pale limb visible with all the graces of his coltish sub-teens. It draped over him to subtly outline every contour: the gently raised shoulder blades, the dip and curvature of his spine, falling over an exposed shoulder. Their bed was a mess of crumbs and potato chips – even as he made sure to lick his fingers of salt every time before flipping a page. The soft strands of his hair drying about his face in curls, damp from his recent bath.

It’s as a still life painting of a bedroom scene, a voyeuristic portrait that some would pay a small fortune for. Outside came the quivering sounds of cicada songs and dragonfly wing beats that did little to dispel the sultry air, and Thor internally groans.

Peeling himself off the couch, slowly, he makes his way to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, to lessen the heat that seems to ferment in his blood – a different sort of intoxication.

He rests his head against the cool bathroom mirror. He might as well.

Thor makes to remove his shirt and step out of his pants, dropping them onto the tile floor and pushing them to the side with his foot. The shower cubicle is nearly too small for his frame, but he ducks his head under the spray, rivulets of water dripping into his eyes.

The coiled tension in his gut finally starts to loosen as he keeps the temperature on cold.

\---

Loki’s left alone for the time being, silently wishing they were at the beach again.

His daydreams of then are interrupted when there’s a curious tapping at the window. He pushes himself up from the bed and lifts the rail to let the poor creature in: a bird pecking for his attention no doubt desperate to escape the searing temperatures.

It hops over to him on the sill. He whispers to it, as if an exhale alone is enough send him flying away “Have you come to cool me down by fanning your wings?” Entranced, he reaches out tentatively; it makes no move to peck at him.

Carefully, he brings his hand to cup underneath, like a nest. He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, thumbs stroking the downy breast feathers. Cradling him against his chest, it’s as if holding a fibrillating heart. He counts the quick beats in quiet astonishment.

“Oh!” The door knob turns and his magpie disappears with a soundless burst and a flick of the tail. The moment dissipates, and Thor emerges.

One dear heart for another.

Loki greets him in a vibrant voice, and excitedly tells Thor of his fantastic feathered friend.

“Perhaps he’ll return.” tone hopeful, the window left open.

They spend the afternoon in the refuge of each other’s company. The clock on the wall ticks away board game by board game, books and tour maps, and Loki combing his hair and braiding it too while sitting in Thor’s lap.

Before sleep, Thor holds the soft armful: a hand on the silken juncture of his thigh where there’s still the lightest layer of baby fat underneath.

He wonders how much longer until there’s none at all.

\---

The flapping of wings in their room and he blinks to attention. Thor shifts his arm underneath where it pillowed his brother’s head to prop up and reach for the table lamp.

“Don’t.”

The voice causes his eyes to widen in the dark and turn around. There, in the dimness, standing with only his hazy figure outlined from the ambient illumination was…

A very still moment of disbelief, held with the undercurrent of dread at what shouldn’t be. The specter of his dead brother tilted his head, and crossed his arms in private amusement.

“I thought you would be more surprised.”

“How are you here?” voice dry.

They are just out of arm’s reach from each other. A part of Thor that aches, still aches, wants to pull him into his arms and confirm his solid existence. The other part that is keenly attuned to danger and instinct keeps him from doing so.

He drawls in predictable boredom. “Thor, oh Thor…always asking the _wrong_ questions.”

“ _Why_ are you here?”

He can’t make out any expression, but there was surely a smile on the face shrouded in shadow. A pale hand snakes its way out to stroke the slumbering boy’s cheek. He sighs and turns subconsciously. Hairs on the back of Thor’s neck rise, and Loki’s smile grows wider “It’s every puppeteer's dream isn’t it?”

The silhouette comes closer, looming, but not any clearer. “Will you miss him—”

The weightless beating of wings flash, sensation of falling, and he’s jolting awake. Eyes adjust, but nothing is out of place, and no one is there. His mind rings with the echo of the phantom’s departing words “ _—more than me?”_

Next to him is his brother’s sleeping form, limbs splayed slightly as a slack marionette’s.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos will be taken to heart, so do with it as you will. As always and forever more, thank you for reading.


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